THE PADDYWHACKS
Mother says it’s something fearful—way this
pesky young one acts,
And she’s called the Johnson children by the
name of “Paddywhacks.”
And she keeps a-givin’ orders that I musn’t have
’em round;
But she thinks that Satan’s in me, for she says
I’m always bound
To go mixing with ’em somehow when she lets
me out to play;
And you bet I’m going to see ’em if I have to
run away.
I’ll never wear them blamed dude clothes
Nor boots with patent leather toes.
I like to stomp and scoff and kick
And holler round. It makes me sick
To have that Reynolds youngster call,
He’s primped up like a big wax doll.,
My mother says he’s just too sweet,
He always keeps his clothes so neat,
And wishes I’d spruce up a bit;
What! Look like that? Well, I guess not,
—They’ve duty mugs and ragged backs,
But just give me them Paddywhacks.
They can catch ye lots of suckers—know the
brook and shortest cut;
They have got a robber’s dungeon and a nice
browse Injun hut.
They can scrape ye lots of sly ver—juicy stuff
from little pines,
They can make a willow whistle, and they’re
posted on the signs
Of woodchucks, coons, and squirrels; and they
own a brindle houn’,
And they get to going barefoot first of any boys
in town.
That’s the stuff—oh, that’s the stuff,
Let a kid kick up and scuff!
Not go round with mouth all screwed
Goody, like that Reynolds dude.
Say, I’ll push him once, if he
Comes a-making mouths at me.
Yah, yah! See them corkscrew curls!
That’s right, let him play with girls.
Let him wear his ruffled shirt
—Give me one that won’t show dirt.
I’m the chap, you bet, that stacks
Up ’long-side them Paddywhacks.